


18 (Beginnings and Endings)

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Followed by Fluff, Gen, and DRUUUUGS, angst but not really just FEAR, batfamily, even if they are unwillingly taken drugs, fear gas/toxin, got them drugs, it's one word, it's rated Teen because I got some language, there's proper science i did research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 16:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8217076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It starts like this:-"I accept."-"Were you hit?"-"Bruce, his heart--"





	

**Author's Note:**

> so I'm not dead

It starts like this:

It’s the middle of June. The fireflies are twinkling above the grass, like playful stars that won’t go to bed. The Manor kitchen light is on, ingredients for cookies abandoned. The milk is sweating on the counter. It’s only midnight, but it’s a midnight in the homely sort of way.

Except one.

Robin is screaming.

 

It starts like this:

He’s screaming, and Alfred has just finished strapping down his wrists in restraints. His eyes do not waver, do not fill. This man was a soldier once, and he is a soldier still.

His hand does however brush over Damian’s head, fingers untangling a lock of matted hair.

Being a grandfather has brought more horrors than he thought the honor to receive.

 

It starts like this:

Deadshot will finish the job as long as he is paid. Scarecrow paid.

It was worth it to see Batman loom above him, the insatiable satisfaction of gnawing _fear_ curl into his stomach. This was alive, this was life, yes.

The fear gas roiled among the city streets, howls continuous like wolves.

Music.

That’s what it was. Music.

The glory of humanity, a man’s soul bared upon the night in one strain of terror.

 

It starts like this:

The dart hits Robin’s neck, just beneath the right of his chin.

He yanks it out immediately, treating the sticky leftover substance like leftover mosquito guts.

He stands.

His lips are white, his breathing labored, but he stands.

Deadshot must give it to him: he’s one tough son of a bitch.

 

It starts like this:

“Get the gurney!”

There’s screaming and threats but never pleas. Robin’s little body is thrashing, and he gnashes his teeth at apparitions.

The synthetic lights illuminate the sweat at his brow.

Bruce goes to work.

Damian’s pupils are wild and blown, but he seems to be fighting it in spurts.

This won’t last forever.

It never does.

 

It starts like this:

The boy’s heart rate is rising.

“Goddamnit! How long was he exposed to it?”

Less than 30 minutes, but doubled with aerosolized and percutaneous absorption. That is to say, in the air and in the skin.

“It’s okay, kiddo,” Dick assures him, hair wet from sweat. His hold is gentle around the small hand. Damian’s nails dig into his palm, but the older brother doesn’t hiss through his teeth. “It’s going to be okay.”

People say that when they are unsure. It’s for the other person, but for them too.

Damian is still screaming, writhing, struggling against himself.

“Let go!” he orders harshly, panting, almost sounding like himself on a particularly stubborn occasion. “Let go!”

Dick doesn’t let go, because Damian needs someone to hold onto as much as he does right now.

“He’s at 160 beats per minute.”

Bruce turns.

Damian pauses mid-scream and coughs up blood.

 

It starts like this:

“ _MAMA_!”

The shrieks rebound against the walls, cave arching in as if eat its own floors.  
Dick’s face is ashen. He presses his swollen and bloody palm closer to Damian’s. Alfred delicately presses his handkerchief to Damian’s mouth, swiping away the dribbling blood like a child’s leftover chocolate cake.

Bruce doesn’t stop.

“Mama, mama, where are you?” Damian warbles, voice hoarse from screaming. “Mama, please!”

 

It starts like this:

The air smells of sandalwood, rich and spiced.

“Where are we going, Mama?”

He skips in front of her, and she looks down fondly.

“We are going to train, my son.”

“What are we training for?”

“Your destiny.”

He smiles at this, and she almost yanks him back into her arms to run away as far as she can. Because she is a mother, she is his mother, she is his _mother_.

But no.

This is his protection.

This is his destiny.

 

It starts like this:

Done.

“ _Ma-a-ma_ ,” Damian hiccups, tear racing down a dusty cheek and Bruce walks toward him.

Dick sits back, hand still wrapped around his little brother’s.

Damian isn’t struggling any more. He’s rigid and tight but he mostly curls in on himself.

Bruce gently but firmly unravels the restraints, lifting his son into his arms. He sits on the gurney, placing Damian between his knees and withdrawing an arm.

“Don’t, don’t!” Damian orders, kicking and elbowing, but he’s exhausted and no match for his father’s persistent fingers. Bruce straightens the child’s left arm, injecting the antidote straight into the vein.

Damian hisses and whimpers but slowly, slowly stops fighting.

They wait.

 

It ends like this:

Alfred sets the little boy into the ice bath, sponging at his forehead to reduce the fever. Damian shivers.

His hand does not waver, but his eyes do fill.

Being a grandfather has brought more blessings than he thought the honor to receive.

 

It ends like this:

Batman will finish the job as long as Scarecrow continues. Scarecrow continues.

It was worth it to see Batman curl his fist into his teeth, the insatiable satisfaction of gnawing _fear_ curl into his stomach.

It was worth it to see Batman, the Batman, afraid.

The reminder that even the Dark Knight had a note in humanity’s glorious song of terror was rottingly sweet.

 

It ends like this:

Deadshot sees Robin on patrol two weeks later, stomping and scowling his way through the night.

The man meets him in the shadows.

He stands.

His arms are crossed, his eyes are young, but he stands.

Deadshot must give it to him: he’s one tough son of a bitch.

 

It ends like this:

He blinks his eyes, which slowly come back into focus.

The room is dark. The clock is a dim blur, numbers indistinguishable. Father is sitting on the upholstered chair next to his bed. Damian meets the man’s eyes.

“Go back to sleep,” Bruce says, voice rumbling in a whisper.

Damian lays his head back on his pillow, body scrunched like a cat. He’s in his father’s too-big pajamas. He searches his father’s face for several beats, then closes his eyes.

Bruce has been timing the next dose of antidote, down to the exact moment. He gazes at the little face, asleep and trusting in his father’s protection.

This won’t last forever.

But he can be grateful for the present.

 

It ends like this:

Dick visits more often, well past June. He tries to be honest, tries to let Damian know. Let there never be a doubt that he loves his kid brother, more than either realized.

“It’s okay,” Damian announces, resisting an eye roll. They’re sitting on the couch in the main entertainment room, rain beating against the window panes. Dick’s palm is cut in moonmarks from nails. Damian can feel it. His palm feels smooth.

(He knows why.)

“It’s going to be okay.”

People say that when they are unsure. It’s for the other person, but for them too.

Dick smiles and doesn’t reply.

 

It ends like this:

“Father, where are you?”

“Here,” Bruce calls out, atop a ladder at the highest library shelf.

Damian peeks up at him, not impressed by his new height. “What are you doing?” he asks crossly, put-out by finding his father in such a ridiculous position after his long search.

“Getting some books, I’ll be right down.”

“Don’t do so on my account.”

“I’ll be right down, Damian.”

He does come right down, and spends the afternoon taking turns reading _Treasure Island_ with his son.

Damian pretends not to like it, but he does.

 

It ends like this:

The hotel room is barren of any sound. Not even the clock ticks.

Talia rubs her hands over her arms as she looks out at the balcony. The sun sets, and she can feel it when she closes her eyes.

“Call him off, _Mother_.”

She should have yanked him back into her arms, should have ran as far and as long as she could while cursing the world where it stood in pieces.

She was his mother.

She should have been his protection.

Because we create our destiny.

 

It ends like this:

“Father?” Damian asks, grogginess tinging his voice. He rubs his blue eyes.

Bruce kneels down, form huddled in the tent. “Grab your fishing rod, I’ll meet you outside.” He presses a kiss to Damian’s head, and the boy is too tired to fight him off.

He does, however, meet him outside and is characteristically sullen the entire trek to the lake. That is soon cleared up once they reach the docks.

“Don’t, don’t!” Damian orders, kicking and elbowing, but he’s giggling and no match for his father’s persistent fingers.

Bruce sends him a look and Damian sends a saucy one back, daring his father to tickle him again.

Instead they take out their fishing rods, side by side on the dock in the quiet dawn.

They wait.

 

It ends like this:

It’s the middle of June. The Manor kitchen light is on, cookies in the oven. Tim and Stephanie are playfully bickering about frosting, and Tim has a bit of blue frosting on his nose. Cassandra is “sampling” the chocolate set, mouth full and grinning whenever someone tries to scold her. Alfred is working through a recipe with Barbara, who pinches Dick’s side each time he swipes dough from her bowl. Bruce looks on in amusement. Damian is on his father’s lap, still drowsy from the last shot of antidote. His head lulls back into his father’s chest.  
It’s only midnight, but everyone is awake.

Except one.

Robin is sleeping.

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so the drug that Damian encounters is similar to BZ and atropine (BZ is the mother of all delirients, related to atropine, scolapamine, and hyoscyamine). BZ at AEGL-3 values are inconclusive and mostly theoretical, thus I followed it as best I could and then fudged everything up because I’m a writer. 
> 
> BZ in the severest case causes a heart rate between 110 and 140, high blood pressure, stupor, hallucinations, outbursts of fear and anger, etc. This, if untreated, goes on for 120 hours until complete recovery. 
> 
> I upped the stakes because I’m a dramatic little bumble bee and added an increased heart rate (children of Damian’s age should be between 60 and 100 bpm (and the more athletic you are, the less bpm, so Damian should essentially be on the lower side of that). 
> 
> The coughed up blood was due the bronchial tube lining being agitated, so it was attacking those too, somehow? Thus the antidote would have needed some steroids (I think?) but I don’t know how that works out with physostigmine.
> 
> The antidote - since BZ is related to atropine, physostigmine (or some form of it) was used as the reference antidote. Physostigmine is to be given in vein injection from 0.5 to 1.0 mg to children. It works rapidly to abolish delirium, even in larger doses of antropine. But it is destroyed, so doses generally have to be distributed every couple of hours. Kids can get fevers too, so Alfred was taking care of that. 
> 
> Damian getting drowsy also works with BZ symptoms, so there’s that too. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
